Chapter Five – Ivy
I’m not even sure he’s home.
And if he is…
What if he doesn’t want me here?
What if he regrets offering the place?
What if I’m just a complication he didn’t ask for and doesn’t want to deal with?
What if he has someone home with him?
The thought hits like a cold hand to the back of my neck.
My grip tightens on the wheel until the leather bites.
I picture boot prints I don’t recognize on his porch, a laugh that isn’t mine drifting through his kitchen, and a lipstick smudge on a glass by the sink.
I hate it—hate how fast the jealousy blooms, hot and shameful.
He isn’t mine, not like that. I know it.
I repeat it. It doesn’t stop the small, ugly ache from settling under my ribs.
“Be normal,” I mutter, practicing a smile that tastes like rain.
But then a gust of wind slams against the side of the car, and I jump, hands gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles go white. A flash of memory surges—bright lights, muffled voices, that awful helplessness of twitching limbs I can’t control. And just like that, I’m moving.
Out of the car. Up the steps. Knocking on the entry door before I can second-guess myself.
Please be home.
Please not tonight.
Please.
The door swings open with a jolt—and there he is. Shirt wrinkled. Jaw tight. The note I left still folded in his hand.
His eyes widen, just for a second, then narrow.
“Ivy?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
He stares at me. “What are you doing here?”
I swallow hard. “There’s a storm.” Ignoring how much that phrase is referencing—the weather, my life, my career, Crew—it’s a hurricane in motion.
His brows pinch together.
I rush to add, “I didn’t know where else to go.”
A beat passes.
“I’m not trying to be a problem,” I say quickly. “I just… I thought…”
A snap of lightning cracks across the sky. He steps aside without a word.
“Get in.”
My relief hits so fast I nearly sag.
I slip past him into the house. It still smells like hay and linen and something warm and earthy beneath it all—Rowan.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
He closes the door behind me with a soft click. Final. But not cold.
“I was just putting away the rest of dinner,” he says after a moment. “Hungry?”
The answer sits heavy in my chest. Yes. For food. For shelter. For kindness.
But more than anything, for someone who won’t walk away when the sky turns against me.
The silence inside the house feels different this time. Not awkward. Not tense. Just… watchful. Like the walls themselves are holding their breath.
Rowan doesn’t say anything as I toe off my shoes, my fingers rubbing over my arms like I can smooth away the goose bumps beneath the windbreaker. The air is thick with rain that hasn’t fallen yet—and tension that hasn’t broken either.
He moves toward the kitchen, his movements efficient and steady. “Sit down,” he says without looking back. “You look like you’re about to collapse.”
I don’t argue. I perch on the edge of the worn couch like I’m a guest in someone else’s dream.
He pulls a plate from a cabinet and ladles something from a pot on the stove. Cilantro and tomatoes hit me in the chest like a memory. Warm. Familiar. Alive. I didn’t even realize how hungry I was until now. I haven’t eaten since that granola bar I bought at the airport this afternoon.
Rowan sets the plate in front of me on the coffee table, along with a glass of water. “Chicken and salsa. Nothing fancy.”
“It smells amazing,” I say, voice softer than I intended . I mean it.
He doesn’t respond. Just sits in the chair opposite the couch.
We eat in silence… well, I do. Rowan just stares. The kind that hums with meaning, but doesn’t demand it.
Outside, thunder rolls again—closer this time. The silver edges of the storm are pressing in.
When I finally look up from my plate, Rowan is still watching me. Not glaring. Just… observing. Measuring. Like I’m weather and he’s trying to decide whether to brace for impact or let it pass through.
“What?” I ask, trying for a smile I don’t quite feel.
He reaches for the dimmer to bump the kitchen light a notch—storm static makes the bulb buzz—and the brief flicker skitters across the ceiling. It’s nothing, but my whole body goes tight anyway.
“I have epilepsy.” I blurt the words out before I can tidy them. “Since I was a kid.”
He freezes with his fingers on the switch, then lowers his hand, palms open, like he’s showing me he heard me. He doesn’t fill the silence or look away.
I swallow. “Last year, I had a seizure on stage. First time it ever happened in public.” The memory scrapes.
“The strobes, the travel, no sleep—it was a perfect storm. The paps and tabloids ran wild. ‘Drugs.’ ‘Alcohol.’ ‘Party girl meltdown.’” I huff a humorless laugh.
“We even released a statement with my doctor—medical records redacted and everything—to shut it down. It didn’t matter.
They wrote their own story and stapled it to my face. ”
His jaw ticks, slow. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”
“And then came the… cage,” I add, softer.
“No flying alone. No hotels alone. No stepping outside without someone ‘managing’ me. My mom—Celeste—she didn’t come to the hospital.
She sent an assistant because leaving a label party would cause panic.
’” The glass sweats under my fingertips.
“So if I get jumpy around flickers or crowds, that’s why. ”
“Are flashing lights a trigger for you?” he asks, voice low, careful.
“Sometimes, but not usually. My big ones are sleep deprivation, stress, and dehydration.” I force my shoulders down. “I manage it. I’m good at managing it.”
He nods once. “What do you want me to do if it happens?”
Practical. Steady. It unclenches something deep inside me. “Lay me on my side. Don’t put anything in my mouth. Time it. If it goes past five minutes, call 911. When I come around, I’m groggy, not broken.” I search his face. “You okay knowing that?”
“I’d rather know,” he says simply. “And I can kill the overheads—lamps are fine.”
I nod, a breath catching on the way out. “And before you ask—yes, I can drive. Laws vary, but it’s six months seizure-free here. I’m well past that, cleared by my neurologist.” I try a wry smile. “The spaceship is legally back in business.”
He huffs, the closest thing he does to a laugh. “Good. Still going to pretend it’s a UFO until Carl says otherwise.”
Some of the tension slips from my neck. I trace a drop of condensation across the table. “I just… needed you to know it’s not what they said. And that if I seem a little off, it’s not you.”
“It’s not you either,” he says, meeting my eyes. “It’s noise. We don’t listen to noise out here.”
The storm grumbles somewhere over the fields. He switches the overhead off and leaves the soft heron lamp on, the kitchen sliding into a warmer kind of light. For the first time in months, the truth feels like something I can sit with and eat beside—and not a weapon pointed at me.
The wind picks up again, brushing hard against the windows like a warning.
“You came here because of the storm?” he asks.
I nod. My throat tightens. “They’ve triggered me before. The thunder. The flashes. I wasn’t… I didn’t want to be alone.”
His posture shifts—barely—but something about him softens. The space between us feels different now. Not smaller, exactly. Just… easier.
“I don’t expect anything,” I murmur. “I just needed somewhere that didn’t feel like a cage.”
He leans forward, forearms braced on his knees. “You’re not a burden.”
I blink. “What?”
“Not here.”
Simple words. But they hit me like a safety net I didn’t know I’d been falling toward.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
Another low rumble shakes the windows.
Rowan stands, collecting the plate.
“I can help—” I start, but he waves me off.
“Sit. You look like you’ve been walking uphill through molasses all day.”
I huff a laugh. “That’s disturbingly accurate.”
He chuckles under his breath, and something warm stirs in my chest. Something I don’t want to name.
I watch him rinse the dishes. He doesn’t need to fill the silence. He just… moves through it. Anchored. Intentional. Unbothered by the weight of not having to say everything out loud.
God help me, I don’t want to leave.
After a few minutes, Rowan returns with two mugs in hand.
“What’s this?” I ask as he passes one to me, the ceramic warm against my palms.
“Chamomile.” His tone is gruff. “Don’t get used to it. I’m not usually this hospitable.”
I smile into the steam. “Noted.”
We sit in the low golden light of the old lamp, the only illumination besides the occasional flicker from the stove pilot light behind us.
Outside, the wind rattles a branch against the siding, a nervous tap that echoes in my chest. The air smells like impending rain and something subtler—cedar, maybe. Him.
“Rowan?” I say quietly.
He glances at me over the rim of his mug.
“I’m sorry for showing up like that. I know it was selfish.”
“It wasn’t.”
I pause. “It felt like it.”
“You were scared. You came to a place that felt safe. That’s not selfish. That’s survival.”
My throat tightens. I didn’t realize how much I needed to hear that—how badly I wanted someone to say it without hesitation, without asking for anything in return.
We sit for a long moment. The mugs grow cooler in our hands, the only sound the low hum of wind pressing against the house.
“You ever think about leaving?” I murmur.
He leans back in the chair, stretching his long legs. “Sometimes.”
“What stops you?”
He’s quiet for a second, then shrugs. “This place. My family. The land. It’s in my blood.”
“That must be nice,” I say, fingers tracing the edge of my mug. “To belong somewhere.”
He turns his head, eyes meeting mine fully. “You don’t?”
I try to laugh, but it dies in my throat. “I belong to whoever needs a good headline.”
His gaze sharpens. Something flickers there—anger, maybe. Or protectiveness.
“You belong to yourself,” he says, low and certain.